


A Collection of Short Fics

by Pygmy Puff (ppuff)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Established Relationship, Ficlets, M/M, Madeleine Era, Post-Barricade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-02-16 09:12:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2264061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ppuff/pseuds/Pygmy%20Puff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm creating a post to park my short fics and drabbles. Most will feature Jean Valjean or Javert or both of them, at various points throughout canon and potentially in different AU settings. Will add tags as more stories are posted.</p><p>Chapter 4: "Duty," a post-Seine AU in which Javert remains inspector (rated M).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tell Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Javert asks Valjean a question.

“Tell me,” Javert said with the mayor in his arms, his voice thick with emotions that he refused to identify. Madeleine’s head was resting on his shoulder. His posture was languid, the perfect definition of _relaxed_. Javert didn’t want to disturb this moment, to shatter their dream.

But he must.

“What does the name Jean Valjean mean to you?”

The body tensed.

“Jean Valjean,” repeated Madeleine, as if he were testing out the syllables for the first time. Javert wasn’t fooled: the voice was too tight, the pause too long. “What do you want it to mean?”

Javert held him tighter. It wasn’t the ironclad grip of an inspector apprehending a criminal. No, he was grasping onto Madeleine like a drowning man clutching at a length of rope tossed his way, his sole hope for survival.

He breathed in the mayor’s scent, all gentleness and light. _How can this be an illusion?_

“I want it to mean nothing.”

The silence stretched and grew oppressive around them.

“Then it means nothing.”

Even though Javert knew he lied, he pretended to believe him, if only for a day longer.

-

The flick of a knife, and the bonds that eat into his wrists, his neck, and his thighs loosen.

He is free.

Javert turns around. _This isn’t over_ , he wants to say, but all words die at the sight of those eyes, at the swirl of emotions there. _Desire_. If anything has happened in the past ten years, it is the stoking of this flame, smoldering beneath the ashes of harsh reality, refusing to die.

A lesser man would act on this desire. The taking of a life or a heart—what difference does it make? They are the same.

But Jean Valjean, ever the saint, demurs.

 _I should go_ , his mind reasons. _I must stay_ , his heart says.

Valjean steps closer.

“Hopelessness,” he says.

The breath against his jaw is hot. Javert shivers.

“You asked me once, what my name means to me, to us. It means hopelessness. Jean Valjean means a world where we can never have a future together.”

Valjean leans in and takes his lips. It is tender. It is possessive. It is desperate.

“Tell me, Javert, that I am wrong. Tell me there is still hope.”

He doesn’t say a word.

-

Afterwards, when the barricades have fallen and Valjean is done playing hero once again, Javert walks.

The river calls, but for reasons he cannot explain, his feet turn away from the water and lead him on dry land into a secluded street, to a secluded house. His hat is in his hand, his heart, lodged in his throat.

The door opens.

“You are wrong,” Javert informs him, and waits.

A hand reaches for his face. A quick swipe of thumb both absolves and claims. _Mine_ , it says.

He leans into the touch. _Yours_.

They enter the house together.


	2. Jump

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Javert is at the Pont au Change, over and over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seem to want to write a lot of fix-it fics lately ;-p

Javert is standing on the parapet of the Pont au Change, looking down at the rushing waters below. The roars in his ears are welcoming, alluring: _Come unto me, and I will give you rest._ Rest from a life of duty (and failure). Rest from the convict (and the saint). Rest from life. Rest from death.

He always ends up at the Pont au Change.

Except for the first time, there’s also always Jean Valjean.

But not, it seems, today.

“I don’t think, my son, you want to jump.”

The voice is not Valjean’s. He whips his head around. Half a heartbeat later, his body follows. His movement is forceful, abrupt. He doesn’t waver. He’s become very good at balancing on the parapet.

An old man is speaking to him. He has white hair and a compassionate face like Valjean’s—the sort of kindness that Javert hates when it is directed his way. The old man’s clothing reveals his sacred vocation. A priest then, the afterworld version of Paris’ local curé, perhaps? Did Valjean attend mass when he was alive, when he was in hiding? Was that how they’d met?

“Where’s Valjean?” he asks before more sensible words like _Who are you?_ come to mind.

He’s gotten used to _his_ convict-turned-saint trying to stop him from jumping day after day. Not that Valjean is very good at his task. Javert always jumps.

His question has made the old priest sad. “It’s difficult for him, to have to watch you die day after day.” The kind man pauses, a frown threatening to break into the calm face. It is the first sign that all is not well in heaven or whatever other-world Valjean and this man spend their time when not trying to come save him. “Yesterday was particularly hard, since he was told to, ah…”

“Fuck off?” Javert completes the sentence for him. The frown is now fully formed on the old man’s face.

Good. So Valjean has finally given up.

His thoughts must be clearly displayed on his face, for the curé meets his eyes with a look of understanding. That blasted compassion is still there.

“My dear brother hasn’t abandoned you, Monsieur Javert. Give him time.” It takes several seconds for Javert to realize this old man’s ‘brother’ is Valjean. “I believe you would come to a different conclusion if you’d seen how earnestly he begged for someone to come here in his stead. He simply needs time to stay away, that’s all.”

A past conversation between him and Valjean comes to mind. _If I stop coming, then you’d be lost forever. I cannot in good conscience give up trying to persuade you not to hurl yourself into hell._

He sneers. It makes the pain in his heart less distracting whenever he does so. “And so you’re forced to be his replacement?”

“I wasn’t forced,” the old man says simply, and Javert can do nothing but accept it as true.

He’s not surprised that in all of heaven, only a parish priest would come to his rescue. The old man probably owes Valjean a debt of some sort in life. Why else would anyone be foolish enough to try to save a lost cause?

Or perhaps no one but saints believes in redemption for even the most undeserving. _I don’t come here everyday just to keep you from falling into the abyss, Javert. I’m here because I hope one day you will decide to come with me. It_ is _possible still for you. Even if you’ve never trusted me in life, believe me in this, please._

He barks a laugh. The old man tenses for a fleeting moment. Unlike Valjean, he hasn’t gotten used to him yet.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you. I’m not coming down. I’ve made the same decision hundreds of times. I’m not about to change now.” He turns back toward the afterlife version of the Seine. “Save yourself the effort of coming back, Monsieur le Curé. Follow your _brother_ ’s example. He’s finally seen the light. You also should give up.”

Javert jumps.

It is better this way, to go under, to resign himself to where he belongs and stay there permanently this time. What does it matter when all hope is gone? The old man’s presence is proof enough. The one person whom he thought would never give up on him finally did. He’ll never see Valjean again.

 

When he wakes again on the Pont au Change, Javert curses.

He hears footsteps behind him. It must be the old man again. It’s definitely not Valjean—he’s heard him coming from behind often enough to know the rhythm of Valjean’s steps.

This time, he doesn’t wait until the curé gets close before he jumps.

As he gasps for air and dies yet another time, Javert belatedly realizes that he could have always done this, to jump without giving Valjean the chance to speak to him. But somehow he’s always waited until Valjean finishes his prepared speech. He would play the game, tolerating the requisite exchange and arguing against Valjean’s rebuttal before jumping. Why is it? Why does he always pause for Valjean?

His thoughts give way to unconsciousness, to death. This time, he doesn’t know if he looks forward to waking up in hell or to hear Valjean’s senseless reasoning again.

 

He is at the bridge again. The old man is tenacious, this much he would concede.

Footsteps behind him. Someone is running. He cannot tell who it is. No one has run toward him before.

“Wait!” Jean Valjean’s familiar voice pants, pleads. “Don’t, please, Javert… I’m sorry. Don’t jump! Please…”

Valjean is babbling. Words come rushing out, an apology in what seems like every other word: _Sorry for missing the past two days, it’s my fault, I should have come anyway, I just couldn’t… I was weak. Sorry, sorry, sorry._

“Shut up.”

It works.

His heart swells with something he cannot describe. Is this how others feel when they reunite with their loved ones in heaven, when they see the faces of those they thought they would never see again?

An odd thought strikes him: does Valjean, against all things sensible, feel this way about seeing him again day after day, not knowing whether a jump would end their encounters forever?

“You’ve enlisted a priest’s help,” he says, to fill the tense silence.

“Oh, the Bishop? Yes, I’m forever indebted to him for that.”

The bishop, as in _the_ Bishop? He’s heard the story from Valjean during one of their encounters here. What would a man of God have to do with a damned soul who committed suicide?

It appears he has voiced his thoughts aloud.

“Don’t say that.” Valjean’s voice is tight. He holds out a hand. “I’ve gone about it wrong all this time, causing you to go through hundreds of deaths. I’m sorry. What I should have said is that I can’t bear the thought of losing you forever. Heaven isn’t complete without you.”

Usually, this is when Javert would scoff and jump. Today, he looks at Valjean’s hand, feeling uncertain.

“Please.”

He cannot turn his eyes away from Valjean. Clarity flashes across his mind and he suddenly understands: He doesn’t want to exist in a world without this impossibly infuriating man. If the Seine refuses to grant him oblivion, then in forced existence, there is only one choice to make.

When he takes Valjean’s hand, all the air in his lungs seem to be pulled from him. But his gasp is different this time. When he breathes again, the air tastes of life.


	3. Most of the Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A three-sentence ficlet that sprouted from the idea of Vajean waking up from a nightmare, among other things. I am employing a very loose definition of "sentence" here :-p

It shouldn't be this painful, to know how to read the emotions behind Valjean's eyes: Fear, that utter terror whenever Javert's is the first face he sees upon waking from a nightmare, his mind not yet able to distinguish dream from reality; Guilt, fleeting and subconscious as Valjean's soul despairs under the weight of his God each time the afterglow of his satiated body dissipates, regardless of whether Valjean's arms still cling to him or Valjean's cock is still buried inside him; Despondency, the telltale sign that lets Javert know whenever a letter has arrived from Valjean's daughter despite the fool's best effort to hide away all traces of evidence.

But it is Valjean who takes his hand and leads him to bed, Valjean who leans in to kiss him and roams appreciative fingers up and down his body, and Valjean who declines to travel with the Pontmercy's — "I think, Javert, I would rather remain in Paris…" ( _with you_ , he hears) — and Javert is reminded that for most of the time, it is love that he sees in those eyes.

And so he offers silent support whenever Valjean wakes to see the dreaded prison guard instead of his lover, accompanies Valjean to church to purge the stains on his soul, and stays by Valjean's side as a poor substitute for the love of his life — and resolves to be content with "most of the time."


	4. Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valjean cannot bear the thought of losing Javert. Post-Seine AU in which Javert remains inspector.
> 
> This chapter is rated M.

"I don't like your job."

"If this is about your lingering doubt, Valjean, then for the hundredth time, I don't plan on arresting you and I never –"

"That's not what I mean," he said, cutting Javert off, taking his hand and squeezing it firmly for emphasis. They had progressed past this months ago, those stormy weeks when he'd nearly lost Javert to the Seine. He didn't want to revisit those tentative days of not-quite-friendship when the inspector was pricklier than a frightened porcupine, his pride and view of self too wounded to be able to conceive of the possibility that he was forgiven—freely and completely forgiven—and also fully accepted.

"Then what do you mean?" came the testy retort, and Valjean sighed. Still very much a frightened porcupine indeed.

"The streets. They are dangerous, especially at night."

"All the more reason for me to take on double shifts."

 _No!_ Valjean's heart protested. He was certain that his panic had shown in his eyes, for the echoing gleam sent his way was stubborn, defiant, and immovable. Valjean knew defeat whenever he stared one in the face. He would never be able to persuade a wolf to cease being a wolf, no matter how tamed this particular wolf had become in all things pertaining to a certain ex-convict. Inspector Javert would never give up police work.

But he was never one to give up without a fight.

"I have enough," he said, " _we_ have enough. You don't need to work. You can… that is, perhaps I would like your company, more often."

They did not speak of love save in the mapping of bodies with fingertips and the crashing of teeth and tongue, but Valjean knew they had long crossed the point where, if one of them were to lose the other, the crush to the heart would result not in a mere surface wound but in a deep gash that would never heal. _Don't leave me_ , he pleaded, begged. _I cannot bear the thought of losing you._

But even the most earnest plea did not work on stone. "You have my company when I am off duty," Javert said. There was a finality to his tone.

That night, Valjean took Javert not with his usual gentleness but with a ferocity that he didn't realize he still possessed. When he spilled his seeds inside Javert, it was as if they were transported back to Toulon, to a dark place where a savage convict once leered at a young guard, claiming what he ultimately could not control.

Beneath him, Javert shuddered as Valjean's ministrations brought him to completion, and in that moment—with eyes rolled back and mouth open—the wolf was vulnerable, beautiful. He leaned in, pressing their lips together, savoring the tender side of Javert that he kept hidden away from the world. He wished he could remain in this suspended bliss forever, where the swipes of Javert's tongue were languid and the hands sliding up and down his back gentle, almost shy. But when Javert turned his head to the side and broke the kiss, he knew their encounter was over. He slid out of Javert with great reluctance, and as he did so, he noticed that the grim determination of Inspector Javert had once again returned to that face.

The stifling summer heat did nothing to dry their sweat and spend. It was uncomfortable, but Valjean would trade a thousand uncomfortable nights to keep Javert's body near him. He snaked an arm around Javert's waist, pulling him closer. The grunt that escaped was disapproving, but the body did not resist.

Some hours later, he started awake. The cover was damp and sticky. The night was too hot for the cover but just cool enough that he couldn't quite do without it. He didn't need to reach a hand or turn his face to know that he was now alone. Javert had left for his night shift.

Valjean couldn't sleep for the rest of the night. Kneeling by the bed, in what must be an obscene sight of a naked body soiled with sin and yet daring to seek, trembling, for mercy, he poured out the worries and disquiet of his heart concerning his dear inspector, and he prayed for God's protection over him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this as a way to process the news of two policemen who were murdered yesterday in New York City. My thoughts are with their families. I cannot possibly imagine what it is like to be told your husband/son/father was killed on duty in a senseless act of violence. RIP.


End file.
